A few minutes' work with the charcoal, a few dexterous touches with the brush, and he was fairly launched on the work, and Dora, with ever increasing surprise in her face, was watching him intently, and listening with deeper and deeper interest to his comments as he proceeded. Was this her cynical, blasé cousin, the man for whose pretensions she had felt herself filled with contempt ?

"Ob, Gilbert!" she cried, when half an hour later he gave the model his congé, "oh, Gilbert, you are a real artist! I had no idea you could paint and teach like that. Where and when did you learn?"

"Oh, I had a fancy for such things in the days of my youth," was his quiet reply. "I studied for two or three years in Paris with Carolus Duran."

"You speak as if the days of your youth were centuries behind you," she said. He gave a few touches to a shadow on the cheek of his sketch, and made no reply. "Do you paint much?" she went

on.

"I don't paint at all now," he answered. "And why not?"

"It's no use. The world will get on just as well without the works of art I might produce."

"The world may," she rejoined, with an air of wisdom, "but you will not.'

"I believe," he said drily, "that I had the same delusion myself once."

"It was not a delusion," said Dora earnestly.

There was 8 sense of satisfaction creeping over her that she was really going to influence this misanthrope after all. But instead of answering her he laid down his palette and brushes, and, resuming his matter-of-fact tone, said:

"This has been less vague, I hope; and now, if I may advise you, I would suggest that you work after this method in black and white only for eight or ten hours a week at least; that is, if you wish finally to be able to paint or model such heads as Madame Van der Heyden's."

Dora sighed.

"I quite agree with you," she said; "it has been a formidable interview, but chiefly for me."

He did not answer her; he only held out his hand and shook hers with a shade more cordiality than usual as they parted.

Then Miss Methuen sighed again. "It will be like beginning all over again," she said. "I don't believe I shall ever have the patience. And as to ten hours

a week for black and white work, it's simply impossible."

Nevertheless, Monsieur Fusain noticed that Miss Methuen's afternoons in the studio were becoming more frequent and regular, and she herself found herself doing her best to remember and be guided by the rules which her self-constituted critic had given her so unexpectedly.

Now that he had fulfilled what he had condemned as an ill-advised promise, De Lastrin would fain have dismissed his cousin's concerns from his mind. To his great surprise, however, he found that his new interest still possessed a charm for him; that it was, in fact, merely stimulated by the consciousness of having given her valuable help. More than once he found himself carefully recapitulating all that he had said to her, and regretting that on certain points he had not been more explicit and diffuse, even wondering whether he was not in duty bound to complete what he had begun. Then he would shrug his shoulders at his unwonted enthusiasm, and try to convince himself that further interference would be unwarranted and unnecessary.

The upshot of it all being that one afternoon he rang again at Monsieur Fussin's door, asked for Miss Methuen, and heard with great inward satisfaction that she was to be found in the studio.

"My youthful taste for the fine arts is returning," he said, by way of apology, as he entered. "I hope you will tell me if you regret the fact."

No, Miss Methuen gave him to understand, with a gracious smile, that she did not regret it at all-that she was even glad to see him. He would now be able to see how much she had tried to follow his advice. Would he not paint something for her? It was such a pleasure to her to watch him. And Monsieur de Lastrin allowed himself to be persuaded, and while he painted he tried to say as much as possible of what he had omitted on the previous occasion. But Art, as the Latin grammars have it, is long, and the subject was by no means exhausted; and so it came about that the second visit led to a third, the third to a fourth, and so on, until it was an established thing for Monsieur de Lastrin to inspect and criticise Miss Methuen's work at least once a week.

"My dear Dora," said Madame Van der Heyden, one day late in March, "have you really come to see me again? I was beginning to think you had cut me."

"Don't scold me," laughed Dora. haven't meant to neglect any one, but I'm in every one's black books."

"It didn't want much managing," replied Miss Methuen. "It was almost disappointingly easy. I scratched through a veneer of cynicism and found an artist of the first quality underneath-fancy that, Simonne-a sympathetic, high-souled artist, who might astonish the world if he chose."

"Yes, yes, that is all very well-and now the end of it?"

"The end will be that I shall go back to London a much more accomplished person than I left it."

"And what will become of the poor tame bear?" The colour deepened in the girl's cheek. "Shall you leave him without a leader?"

"The tame bear, as you call him," replied Dora, "is not so far tamed as to miss a leader very greatly."

"I should like to have a chance of judging that for myself," said the other. "By the way, what is this great card I have received from the Fusains? Shall I have to accept?"

"Of course you must accept. It is Monsieur Fusain's annual display of his pupils' performances. Half Brussels is asked. You must be there as an admirer of mine."

"And will De Lastrin be there, too?" "Naturally," rejoined Dora, with an air of conviction.

"Then," replied Madame Van der Heyden, I shall most certainly come as one of your admirers. I am sure your work of the last few months deserves admiration, though I am not referring to anything which Monsieur Fusain will enter on his catalogue, but to something which I shall take the liberty of calling 'Miss Methuen's Masterpiece.''

"Pupil and work," said Madame Van der Heyden; "but where is the master?" "There," said the girl, "in the doorway, talking to the Princesse de Chimay." Simonne laughed.

"I didn't mean Fusain," she said. "Of course I was asking after De Lastrin. Why isn't he here ?-for he isn't."

"How should I know ?" rejoined Dora, with a touch of petulance.

It was not the first time during the evening that she had had to answer this question.

It was not easy to conceal a certain feeling of pique, as the evening wore on, and it had by degrees been made plain to her that the various little scenes which she had rehearsed for the astonishment of those who had never seen De Lastrin unbend, would not be enacted after all. He had accepted the invitation-that she knew. He had spoken to her of coming, and she felt his absence almost as a public slight.

"Well, if I'm not to see the performance of the tame bear, I shall withdraw," said Madame Van der Heyden. "I consider that I've been swindled of an hour of valuable time; there's no one here except yourself now the Princess has gone. Will you come with me?"

"How can I?" said Dora pettishly; "the pupils will not be expected to go until far later."

Then she withdrew into a little curtained alcove, from which she could see without being observed. She was watching and waiting for nothing, she tried to persuade herself, except for the people to go and for the evening to be over. Presently two artists paused near her.

“And when shall I see you again?"
"Possibly never," he replied.

"It is not possible," she cried passion ately; "it is impossible! Gilbert, how dare you come and deal me such a cruel blow? Don't you understand?”

"I do not understand. I beg of you not to explain yourself in a way which you might afterwards regret."

"Ab, Gilbert," she cried piteously, "I must say it all now. It doesn't matter what you think. Why do you want to go to the Congo to begin a new life? Can't you begin a new life here? Haven't you begun one already? Ob, I have been so happy all these weeks and months, and I thought you were happy too!"

Her face was lifted to his, pale and tearstained, her large eyes full of passionate pleading, her beautiful lips trembling. For a moment he hesitated, then drawing his hand from hers, he said:

'Dora, you are a child beginning life; there is a gulf between you and me which you cannot measure. Some time you will remember this and understand what I mean, perhaps, though on the whole we had far better forget it all. I shall probably not see you again. Shall we say good-bye now?"

"No!" she cried, "I shall never forget, nor will you, however hard you try. As to saying good-bye, I cannot say it."

She turned and laid her head against the wall behind her. When she looked up again she was alone, and was it her imagination, or was some one really singing with all its mocking beauty fully emphasized, "Si tu ne m'aimes pas, je t'aime"?

"It is all over," said Miss Methuen, half aloud, "there is nothing left of it but a hateful ghost;" and the weird music followed her down the stairs, a fitting requiem for the burial of her shattered dream.

It was the month of May, the merry month of May in Paris. The gay world was all agog in that pleasure-loving capital, and the Salon-an unusually good Salon, too, every one said-was crowded with visitors every afternoon.

"My dear Dora, you don't know how proud I am of myself and of you. It is the next most important thing to being an exhibitor oneself, to be ciceroned through the galleries by one of the most successful artists of the year."

It was Madame Van der Heyden who

said this, as she and Miss Methuen made their way slowly through the throng in the Palais de l'Industrie.

"I'm glad you appreciate the honour," replied Miss Methuen. "To think I have studied here for two years now, and how absurd the idea sounded to me when Wauters first suggested it at the Fusains' soirée !"

"I remember that soirée," said Madame Van der Heyden, with a sharp glance at her companion. "I was extremely disappointed because De Lastrin never appeared at it. By the way, dear, you might tell me how it was your tame bear turned wild again and rushed off to the jungles. Did you really refuse him?"

"I have told you before," replied Miss Methuen, "that I did not refuse him." "And you have heard nothing of him since he went?" "Nothing."

"He didn't stay in his senses long, dear."

Her companion made no reply.

"And your picture," began Madame Van der Heyden again, "your "Jason Yoking the Fiery Oxen,' where does that come?

"We are just reaching it; there it is." "Dear me, and what a crowd round it! It will take us half an hour to work our way through. I wonder," she added slily, "what De Lastrin will say of your success? "

"He will not hear of it."

"But, dear, it is in all the art journals." "Art journals do not get so far as the Congo," said Miss Methuen.

"Not often, perhaps," replied Simonne, "but a chance one might; in fact, I may as well make a clean breast of it. You know that paragraph which appeared in the Beaux Arts' a few weeks before the Salon opened, speaking of your picture and Duran's approbation of it. Well, I took the liberty of marking the paragraph and sending the paper to your cousin."

"My dear Simonne, you didn't."

"My dear Dora, I did. I thought it would cheer his heart to see that his lucid interval had borne such excellent fruit."

By this time the two friends had so far penetrated the throng in front of the picture as to be able to see it. Lifting her glasses to her eyes, Madame Van der Heyden looked long and carefully at what, by universal consent, was pronounced one of the pictures of the year.

"Dora," she said at length, "of course

you know I'm no judge of how it's done. If your master is charmed, what is left for me to say? But one remark I must make, and that is: Where did you find that face for your Jason ?"

"From my imagination," was Miss Methuen's somewhat curt reply.

"From your imagination," repeated her friend. "My dear, I should rather call it from your memory."

Miss Methuen's colour rose slightly. "I don't understand you," she said. "Yes, you do, my dear. Of course it is not patent to the general public; but I can see distinctly that in your Jason's face you have been painting De Lastrin; not as he really looks, but as he ought to look if you had succeeded in carrying out your benevolent idea of bringing him to his senses. Now, Dora, confess."

"There is nothing to confess," replied the girl stiffly.

And Madame Van der Heyden saw that there was an end of the subject.

"By the way, dear," she went on, "is it true that you have refused twenty thousand francs for this picture?"

"I did not paint it to sell," answered Miss Methuen. Then she looked hastily at her watch. "I had almost forgotten," she said, "that I have an appointment at the studio. The man who offered twenty thousand francs for this insists on giving me a commission, I don't want commissions, but I have consented to the interview."

no

"Some pertinacious American, doubt," said Madam Van der Heyden. "Shall I come and give you my support?" "If you please," replied Dora ; and they left the gallery together.

Yes, the concierge said, there was a gentleman in the studio. He had given no name; he was waiting for mademoiselle.

Dora hurried upstairs, framing polite rejoinders to the probable pertinacity of her visitor. As she opened the studio door, however, she stood still on the threshold. The colour mounted to her face and then left her pale and trembling. It was Madame Van der Heyden who came to her rescue.

"Well, Marquis," she cried effusively, "this is a delightful surprise. We have just been talking of you as of a remote exile. Have you given up the jungles and savages altogether, or have you only come back to give commissions to popular artists?"

"I came back to see the Salon," replied De Lastrin, looking not at the speaker but at her cousin.

"You didn't!" cried Madame Van der Heyden triumphantly. "Now, I know my newspaper was at the bottom of this. Well, Dora, I suspect you can dispense with my support, as the troublesome American is only a myth. I bid you both good-bye for the present. By the way, Marquis, I hope you are not returning to the Congo again immediately?"

"I cannot say," replied De Lastrin; "it all depends."

Then Madame Van der Heyden laid her hands on Dora's shoulders, and, kissing her on either cheek, whispered:

"My dear, it all depends on how you put the last touch to your masterpiece."

"Dora," said De Lastrin, as her footsteps died away on the stairs, "I know I have no claim to be heard, but please let me speak. The new life I tried to live has been a total failure. From the first I felt that I had left something behind which I should never find again, and which I was unworthy to return to seek. I tried in vain to master the regret-to prove to myself that I had acted for the best. I have thought of you night and day. When I heard of your success, I felt that I must share it by coming to look at your picture. I meant to see it and then go back; but having seen it-having understood it or am I mistaken- He paused, and taking her hands drew her, unresisting, towards him, "We parted once without saying good-bye, Dora," he whispered. "I could not go this time without saying it."

For her answer she laid her head on his breast, and that was how Miss Methuen put the finishing touch to her masterpiece.

THE THIRTEENTH BRYDAIN.

BY MARGARET MOULE. Author of "Catherine Maidment's Burden," "Benefit of Clergy," "Mr. Wingrove's Ways," "The Vicar's Aunt," "Dick's Wife," etc.

CHAPTER XXI

THERE was a low sound, half a sigh and half a soft sob, from Etrenne, and then there was a silence. The conservatory was a large one; it ran, as has been said, along all one end of the drawing-room. It opened into a still larger fernery, full of every sort of ferns, large and small, rare and common; and through the very